Fundraiser for a dear friend and comrade!!

Hello friends!

Jackie here. I just wanted to let you know about a fundraiser that my friend Emilie and I organized for our best friend, LaKeyma (Chelsey) Pennyamon! In addition to being a tumblr sensation (ha!), LaKeyma has worked on a number of Black radical and feminist projects in Baltimore and is a member of Coalition of Friends, the LIES journal editorial collective, and volunteer at the Youth Empowered Society (YES) Drop-in Center. She was a founding member of the Baltimore Feminist Reading Group and was one of the authors behind the widely circulated W&TCH Occupy communique. LaKeyma also has an essay coming out in the forthcoming issue of LIES: A Journal of Materialist Feminism that examines the political implications, for Black women, of defining anti-Black racism as emasculation. (Seriously—this is a *paradigm shifting* essay that you all *must* read as soon as it drops!)

We’re trying to raise money to help LaKeyma enroll at Morgan State University in Baltimore because we are continually blown away by her genius and believe wholeheartedly in her intellectual and political work. LaKeyma, who was forced out of school due to financial reasons, has been wanting to go back to school for a while but has had a difficult time re-enrolling because she has faced a number of financial and bureaucratic obstacles. With your help we hope to raise the funds necessary to cover the cost of enrollment…just in time for her birthday!!!

Help this beautiful comrade out!!

Miss you all! Thanks for your help!

My girl LaKeyma (Chelsey) Pennyamon (LIES, Coalition of Friends) is trying to go back to school but is facing ridiculous financial barriers. Em and I are trying to raise money for her for her birthday! Please share this widely and donate if you can <3333

There is more to say about why withholding a lyric position might resemble — might be the very thing — that stands in: for the kind of organ speech: Bedient is writing about here. How the heart, in a T-shirt, is throbbing next to the body in the snow. How do you write into the history of bodies that don’t remain intact? That don’t get to: express? Perhaps the lack of affect is, in fact, an involuntary reversal of an ululation: the call from the body that is not: cried? A cry, that is, that is cut off before it exceeds the bodily position — to be received by others?
Bhanu Kapil’s response to “Against Conceptualism

I can’t help but be wrong in a world that doesn’t make sense to me

I remember the day the dead notes went mellifluous and I was in the texture of David Byrne singing: you’ve got light in your eyes. You’re standing in it—in fruit and color, the French word that replaced the apple as a general English condition. You can remember as much as you let yourself. You feel a certain quality of frontier tall talk in Joanna Newsom, love of this language breaking to show us what it feels like to stand on a crown unmade and remade as you make the desire with the one who listens. This is our lingua franca. There, the delay of what is always late to come, 7 million words you’ll never know. This is where sound comes in, to save you from the gaps. Shakespeare would have been a fantastic rapper and there are “yo mama” vocab books like yo mama so peripatetic she just kept walking and walking until she laid her body down on the crease of the world. The mother is the invisible key we keep because life is such that we cannot emerge ex nihilo. Some novels were lush with descriptions of the way people are, the sureness of Flaubert, exacting sentences that transmit Emma in her essence. How could I be the kind of person who doesn’t remember the drum of the boy’s peg leg or burning paper becoming black butterflies on a certain heavenward chimney path.

To return is to be returned to yourself in a moment of grace so subtle you don’t notice the whole world has shifted around you and you are suddenly where you were supposed to be, which is where you are…no matter where you are. Is this what Nietzsche meant when he talked about affirming everything that has come before you?

The words will always be there if you’ll let them be near. The committees of linguists and lexicographers will be there at the gate of the Big Book while a Glaswegian “nip” knocks at the door, begging for entrance. What unholy malapropisms I commit in my holiness because the breakdown and the adulteration of the movable tool is the only thing that makes life interesting: these words I remake, accidentally, because I can’t help but be wrong in a world that doesn’t make sense to me. This hole bore in the skin of language is the skylight of night, sitting on the midnight toilet—my thrown—throne—I know nothing until the enlarged moment sinks me. So quick is this plummet into thickness, which dwells at the depth of Shakespeare’s drowned book becoming a book of conceptual writing by women. We drown the language because we have been condemned to live a life of mostly not-knowing, writing around the naked moment, the underwater moment, when creatures are invaded, invading what invades them, the mermaid’s mind becomes a school of jeweled fish becomes a swarm of queen bees becomes a cloud of agitated moths billowing out of the sloth’s stirred hide. Who knows why some canopy dwellers lower themselves to bury their dung or how people can believe that speaking the Queen’s English will deliver them to mammon, self help-style.

The compound word, rived. Twain’s Mississippi River or Chaucer’s Canterbury—the texture of the language that moves without permission in endless proscription this movement of the thought hungry for unmapped bouquets and illicit crossbreeds breaking forms open. Obama’s drone strikes hover above all this motion, commotion, a wedding waiting to be destroyed in Yemen. How to live when everything invades—minimum wage, no-wage or ways to wage war with money. Ways to unlearn money or at least money as the primary measure of a life in contradiction and joy—we don’t understand. How stupid it is to believe that nothing moves without money, as though nothing moved before money, as though the tree grows for money, as though all movement can be reduced to the choice to work miserably toward the boss’s idiot dreams.

Don’t go to that place. Nature has given you a mind fine enough to know you have the best friends in the world. Your mind not quite literary but it may become so in the slant of your way of sensing the world.

to debbie hu, but also for vicky lim

Guess what?

We are making performance art about identity

Someone, Notify the galleries!
Art history is being made by the ones without history—they are laying claim to a narrative told from the craziest hole in the world I’ve ever seen

The under-narrative bellows and shatters all other narratives (hetero whitey bedtime stories and their grownup counterparts) making us (officially) the coolest people who have ever inhabited the earth and its history/ies-

Yes this army of dispossessed Asian lost girls who desire the romance of being in their lives (prodigiously) will save the world by making everything shitty go away or forcing wiener schnitzels to undergo accelerated evolution toward betterment—more than betterment. Only then will they be worthy of inhabiting this planet with us.

an email in response to an Alan Sondheim poem sent by the great Nat Otting

First of all nobody will survive money 

Oh course I understand this poem and by that I mean I understand what it means to be a disappeared writer who wakes to tinnitus like all my life is this morning tinnitus because the soundtrack to my life is exhaustion, whereas those subalpine I mean sibylline those sumptuous beauts of the celestial order have got a kinder aural factory atmosphere symphony factory to make the day leap with a plangent start.

 A dream comes to me and I am in a classroom being tested. no one is present to administer the test—I must be here to test myself. (We know how that will go.) What makes this dream interesting is that I am waiting for someone i do not know (i.e. a stranger). And then I’m outside in the desert and it’s cold it’s a vacant rodeo and I’m still waiting. Approach, already!

Who said: is this WoC ontology — this waiting — Debbie knows and loves the poem of waiting, and all great poems of waiting — Tennyson COME INTO THE GARDEN MAUD — which may or may not be a poem of waiting though we did have to wait to look it up on the computer. Between remembrance and re-enactment: there is waiting 

But I truly believe we’re not waiting to become our better selves, that we’re already so great as it is. We are aureoled beings doing our being thing 

It’s not easy being alive

This I know

But sometimes the moon is such that you just kind of slide into the glory hole that is your life, the brave freewheeling musicality of existence. 

Luv every part of yourself, even the failed ones 


soul in need of rehabilitation? — an email in response to a solicitation / this is kinda sad

yes of course i remember T—. how is T—?? are you both based out of new york? how do you feel living in new york?

i would love to write for ____ Mag. i would love to write zines and live with punk-hipster hybrids who would never identify as such; in general i would love to be a part of the underworld you are creating because even the parts that looked most ugly to me when i was in it, the parts i hated most because i couldn’t “relate,” now look so beautiful to me, irreducibly brave. from my sad hole in the world i know that what i have to learn from insurrectionists is precisely this art of the underworld, perhaps i have come to this lesson too late. i don’t think i’m cool enough to write for your magazine though i like it—at one point in my life i would probably have resisted it, not all of it but maybe the parts of it that would never have an ole nerd like me, tho if i remember correctly T is kind of a nerd—it’s never either-or, all-or-nothing, is it? 

all that to say i think writing for your magazine would be good for my soul, or the part of my soul that has been snuffed out by too much time alone in the desert. words don’t come easy to me these days. but you should keep bugging me about it. i dunno. i hate society as much as anyone else but my rejection of the world is now manifest as a kind of muteness in the face of what i hate. 

take care——